


all the pretty flowers, in the dust

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Breathplay, Butt Plugs, Domestic Kink, Forced Crossdressing, Head trauma, M/M, Name-Calling, Punishment, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8834905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: He finds purpose in her life and quiets the thoughts in her head, about things and people she doesn’t even know. AU from S2e8.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings before you read, because the darkness was calling to me. Written for my H/C Bingo Card prompt: "head trauma".

Humming to herself quietly, she shuffles around the kitchen; her bare backside faces the doorway and she smooths down her vibrant (and overly frilly) red apron, before she glances at the time. _5:45 PM_ is what the oven reads and she’s expected to have dinner on the table by 6:35. Roxy’s not bothered though as she fiddles with the oven controls and turns back to the roast, which remains on the island counter. She stops humming, however, the moment she hears someone pound his or her fists against the front door. She hears the name of her husband from a woman, who claims to be in law enforcement and her stomach churns.

            Roxy ignores the uninvited guest. She knows the front door is off limits, in case someone wants to cause her or her husband harm.  Instead, she allows the knocking to fade to the back of her subconscious as she turns back to the roast and places it into oven with a twinge of accomplishment. She’s never correctly prepared a roast before and she’s somewhat anxious for her husband to return home and to bestow her with a rare smile for a job well done. There’s only so much cleaning, cooking and reading she can do, before she yearns the company of another human being—or, before her fingers slip past the waistband of her skirt and the elastic of her silk panties to skim the head of her bobbing penis. Regardless of how many times her husband has told her that a perfect wife _doesn't_ play with herself. Perfect wives strive to make their husbands happy, by both keeping their houses in order and by pleasing the head of the household in every way.

            The head of her penis twitches from beneath the apron and before she can stop herself, she runs her hand down the front of her apron again; her fingers (and material) skim against her erect penis and she nearly bursts. She’s not been touched in nearly two days, a punishment for burning the bread, and the plug between her ass cheeks does nothing to ebb the woes of not being able to come.

 

            The knock on the front door comes again and per instruction, Roxy grabs the landline and dials. The phone rings twice, before Lorelei (her husband’s secretary) answers.

            “You are not supposed to call, Roxanne.” Roxy frowns at the usage of her full first name. “He’s not going to be thrilled…”

            “I…Lorelei, _please_ ,” Roxy begs. “There’s someone at the door and I’m…I’m frightened, alright?” She half-expects Lorelei to laugh at her—to call her a _sissy_ or a _pussy_ —but Lorelei’s silent. Her husband’s told her that Lorelei doesn’t like her much, mainly because of the person she _used_ to be prior to _the accident_ nine months ago. Roxy doesn’t like to think about her life from before _the accident_ , mainly because it _hurts_ and because she’s been instructed not to poke around in her memories.

 

            “Hun?” The voice of her husband greets her and Roxy almost relaxes. “Lorelei said there’s someone at the door? Is it actually someone who could cause harm or just the paperboy again?” Roxy furrows her brows at the disbelief in her husband’s voice. “You know you aren’t supposed to interrupt my business, unless it’s a…”

            “Emergency,” Roxy interrupts, while her voice cracks. “Someone’s at the door and they’re asking for you.” Her husband goes quiet, before the pounding at the door starts again and their wedding picture topples from the hallway wall. It had been taken a month after _the accident_. “They won’t go away…”

            “Can you be quiet and brave for me, sweetheart?”

            “What if they hurt you?” Roxy asks quietly and she hears her husband sigh. He might think she’s being a _tad_ bit of a drama queen, but she doesn’t care. She’d be lost without him. He finds purpose in her life and quiets the thoughts in her head, about things and people she doesn’t even know.

            “They won’t hurt me, Roxanne,” her husband promises, silencing her arguments. “Be quiet and they’ll go away, alright. If they _do_ find me, it’ll be _your_ fault because you couldn’t control that slutty mouth of yours.” Roxy says nothing else as the call is disconnected and she forces herself to hunker down behind the kitchen island; something, she immediately regrets, as the action forces the plug between her ass cheeks to nudge against her prostate and she cannot help but moan—loudly. Her hand immediately shoots to her mouth. She’s going to be her husband’s _perfect_ little wife by being brave, quiet and most importantly, still, until he eventually returns to her.

 

            (When her husband does eventually walk through the door and his dinner is not ready, he immediately demands that she go into the playroom and “assume” her position. She does so without argument.)

 

:::

 

            “You are _not_ supposed to call me at work,” her husband tells her, while he brings the wooden paddle across her bare ass cheeks. Roxy says nothing, as she accepts his punishment without argument. “You are _also_ supposed to have dinner ready by 6:35 PM, no exceptions.” The paddle strokes her backside again and she _moans_ , forcing her husband to tsk. “What _were_ you doing, slut? Playing with yourself?” Roxy’s cheeks color red at the speck of white left on her husband’s favorite apron. The paddle hits the inside of her thigh. “You are _mine_ , Roxanne. Do _not_ touch your body without my permission, as I _own_ you. Do you understand?” She says nothing and he brings the paddle down atop her penis, forcing her to yowl. “Roxanne!”

            “Yes!” She screams. “Yes! I’m sorry! It’ll never happen again!” Her husband taps her chin and she glances up at him, fear forcing her stomach to churn at the sinister look he wears. Her husband is many things; but a merciful man is _not_ one of them.

            “I don’t think you’re being sincere enough, really,” her husband replies, placing aside the paddle. “I’ve explained to you, time and time again, my expectations and you consistently are failing to follow my simple instructions. _Maybe_ ,” there’s a brief pause and Roxy shivers, as she’s forced to lie across her husband’s lap, waiting, “another blow to the head will remind you of who you’re _supposed_ to be.”

 

            Before she can question him, he has a hand wrapped around her throat; his wedding band presses flesh against her skin, as he attempts to suffocate her.

            “Don’t worry, my little _slut_ ,” her husband murmurs, as she’s on the verge of passing out. “You’re too important to me—to my _plans_ —to let you slip through my fingers now.”

 

            The last thing she hears, as her husband releases her throat and she begins her ascent into unconsciousness, is “CBI!”

 

::::

 

            From the observation room, Grace Van Pelt surveys Wayne Rigsby; and her heart remains lodged in her throat at the shadow of the man, whom she once loved and adored. She’s relieved he’s alive, but there’s a _small part_ of her that thinks death would have been far better an option. Lisbon had cautioned her to stay out of the observation room, until they—she, Cho and Jane—could get to the extent of Red John’s mind games, but Grace hadn’t listened. She had gone against Lisbon’s orders and had immediately found herself, transfixed by the man, who ultimately thought of himself as a woman.

            She hears the door open and close again, before she speaks.

            “What did he do…?” Grace asks Jane lowly, her voice breaking. “Can you fix him?”

            Jane says nothing for a moment, but his hand settles on her shoulder. “This isn’t a hypnotic trance, Grace. This is a psychotic break.” Grace continues to stare at Rigsby, who sits before them in a blouse and a pleated skirt. She can tell he’s somewhat frightened and Grace’s heart breaks, as they hear Lisbon and Cho continue to question him about his nine-month disappearance. He continues to plead for his husband and claim innocence, for the man, who had _just_ attempted to kill him. “I’ve asked Dr. Miller for a personal favor, per Lisbon’s request; but I already have a pretty good inkling of what happened.”

            Grace blinks. “Can you…will you…?”

            “Tell you what I suspect?” Jane asks her and she nods, as her mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t know if I should, Grace.”

            “Please, Jane.”

            She feels Jane’s continued stare, before he starts talking again. “Rigsby’s disappearance, nine months ago, tied into Red John’s decision to have bombed the CBI.” Grace nods. She remembers the bombing vividly. Rebecca Anderson, an acolyte to Red John, hadn’t wanted to turn herself in peacefully after having gunned down an entire CBI unit and in turn, had blown herself (and the adjacent basement rooms) to bits. Rigsby had been in the evidence room at the time of the detonation, as Lisbon had felt it important to ensure the validity of the Red John case files. According to the forensics unit, there had been no survivors of the initial blast. “Red John must have planted the bomb on Rebecca, somewhere between the hospital and the holding cell. He must have also planted several cadavers in the basement, just prior to detonating the bomb,” Jane explains. “Rigsby was in the destruction path, and for some reason, Red John pulled him out.” Grace eyes him and Jane shrugs. “This is only speculation, Grace. Unless Red John’s corpse talks or Rigsby suddenly remembers—speculation is the word of kings.”

Grace grimaces at Jane’s explanation. Lisbon had pulled the trigger, after Red John had refused to turn himself in. “I’m glad he’s dead.” Jane says nothing in response. “I hope God has no mercy on his soul.” Grace glances back toward Rigsby, who has begun to fidget in his seat and she can’t help but smile at the familiarity. “Is there a chance he’ll…ever be normal again, Jane?”

Jane stares at Rigsby thoughtfully. “Perhaps.” He’s probably not telling her the _entire_ truth, but for once, it’s something she can deal with.


End file.
